


tell me why (my gods look like you)

by queerofcups



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Reincarnation, the deaths don't stick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 17:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15611562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerofcups/pseuds/queerofcups
Summary: I will keep on waiting for your love





	tell me why (my gods look like you)

**Author's Note:**

> I'd feel bad not warning for the deaths but I can't emphasize enough that they don't stay dead.

0.

There’s a boy who picks his way to Daan’s holy place every full and new moon. He’s milk pale, snow pale, the way the virgins who come for Daan’s mother are. His hair is muddy and his eyes are blue and deep. He goes to his knees and leaves rations of meat, still bloody, on the burn dark hollow of Daan’s tree, the one marked with his name that grows tall and curls around his mother’s shrine. 

Daan doesn’t get offerings often. When his people come for love, or motherhood, or a good fuck, they leave things for his mother, or his sisters: mewling infant hares so young their eyes haven’t opened and poultices of heart shaped leaves. People mostly forget about him. Who needs a god of love when you’re a warring, sailing folk-- particularly one with soft eyes and softer hands. Daan’s hands are uncalloused, have never touched an axe, mortal or magic, and now he thinks he many die that way. 

The part of him that is also his mother, in the roundabout way of gods, has seen the end of their days as gods. There are fewer and fewer believers every day. The last hares of thanks to his mothers have turned to bones and then dust in the time since the last worshipper came. His step-father, the  _ Allfather,  _ may be the last of them, the only shining thing left in the cold, expanse of their home. It’s like him, the bastard.

The boy isn’t soft. He isn’t supple like the doe-eyed  _ eromenos _ his brothers whispered about, coming back on a Greecian wind. This boy is broad-shouldered and exsiccated, his lips cracked and his breath thin. He’s weak, gets weaker every time he comes to Dan, but he finds a way to bring an offering to Daan. He whispers prayers, gratitude and anguish, begging Daan for relief, or release. 

Daan breathes himself into human form and comes to stand behind the boy, his feet light and silent on the snow. The boy whispers, fervent, and the sensation of hearing him twice, once from his hollow and again in Daan’s ears, is enough to knock him on his knees beside the boy. 

Any other one of his people would be on their feet immediately, axe in hand. The boy freezes, turns to meet his eyes.

“I’ve heard your cry,” Daan says softly, carefully. He reaches up to brush his fingers against the boys long neck, feeling the thinness of his neck. A small binding mark appears, three small lines, just at the juncture of where his jaw became long, white neck.

Daan will never die. It’s not the path gods take. Or, he’ll die, over and over again, but it’ll never stick.  But Daan wants something of his own, and this boy, who brings him the heart of a doe in the full moon and doesn’t shake at the sight of a god, seems a good thing to own. 

“Daan,” the boy says and turns away to cough. Red splashes across the white and brown of the disturbed snow. It's just as well. Daan loves a chase. 

“I’ll find you,” Daan says, and catches the boy as he faints. It isn’t long before his lips go blue and his breathing stops. Daan holds him through it all.

 

1. 

 

“ _ Philip _ ,” his older brother hisses, elbowing him. “A lord is coming.”

Philip blinks sleepily at Martyn before turning to brush the moody chestnut destrier he’d been attending to. She’d been sleeping until a few minutes ago, before the bell sounded, awakening the entire house. There was a battle they were needed at, an enemy coming too close. 

They were stable boys, employed at a castle everyone knew the name of and wanted the honor of staying at, in the middle of one bloody war or another. Of course a lord was coming, there was always a bloody prince coming, or a duke or some upstart who’d managed to kill the right not-quite-royal.

“Philip,” Martyn says, “Philip, he’s one of those funny ones, you need to--”

“Philip needs to prepare my horse for the ride more than he needs to pretend to give two fucks what the funny lord wants,” said a voice behind them. 

Martyn went scarlet and the both turned. The destrier whickered.

The lord wasn’t dressed yet, weighed down in heavy mail but not yet in his proper armor. Philip recognizes him. He  _ is _ one of the funny lords, younger than the both of them, unmarried and from a family everyone remembers but no one quite knows. There are rumours about what he does to pages and stable boys, but Philip, who prays ten times a day for the Lord to forgive him for his thoughts of sodomy and sins of onanism, doesn’t partake in that type of gossip.

From the way the lord,  _ Daniel _ , looks at him though, a long gaze starting from the top of his head to his feet, pausing just below his eyes,  _ perhaps at his mouth _ , makes him think those rumours may have some merit. 

Martyn is the one that remembers to bow and Daniel is making dismissive noises before Philip can remember he ought to do the same. His mouth feels dry and he scratches his neck, just above his birthmark. 

“Make sure my horse is fed before you send her to me,” Daniel says, glancing at Martyn before his gaze falls, and stays, on Philip. “What’s your name?”

“Philip, sir,” he says, wondering if he should bow now. 

“Philip,” Daniel repeats, “Philip.”

Philip holds himself very still and tries, desperately, to remember that he is not a sodomite, despite the things that crawl into his dreams at night. 

This lord, Daniel, will crawl into his dreams tonight, there’s nothing to be done about that, but he didn’t have to luxuriate in the way Daniel said his name.

“If I return,” Daniel says, “I’m looking for a valet. My last one didn’t want to be associated with my... _ funny _ nature. You might be interested?”

Martyn always had a talent for being completely silent in his fury. He and Philip both know that this is not a request. They also both know that Philip is uneducated, unskilled and stable boy to royalty and near-royalty was more than either of them expected to achieve. Valet to a lord,  _ any _ lord, was more than Phil even imagined wanting. 

“I-I might be interested, my lord” Philip says, hoping his shock sounds demure. 

“I’ll find you, then,” Daniel says, the beginnings of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He nods as he says, “Gentlemen.”

Philip and Martyn both bow that time and stand in silence until Daniel’s clanging footfall sounds far away.

“A  _ valet _ ,” Philip whispers in awe, turning back to the horse.

“If he returns,” Martyn says darkly. “Don’t count unhatched chickens, Philip.”

Philip scoffs. It's a minor skirmish, they’ve only heard tales of victories the last few seasons. He scratches at his birth mark, the three simple lines on his neck, and finishes preparing Lord Daniel’s horse.

The skirmish lasts for three days. Lord Daniel doesn’t return. Neither does his horse. Phil continues to work in the stables, until he’s replaced with someone younger, and he doesn’t hear any more stories of a young lord with an irreverent smile and funny ways.

 

2. 

 

Dan sits on the uncomfortable wooden bench, staring at the painting. St. Sebastian looks away, his pale body stretched out against a tree wrist bound and eyes turned heavenward. Reni hadn’t spared any detail and Dan’s eyes are caught on the wickedly soft curve inward from Sebastian’s hip, the soft folds of the cloth wrapped loosely around his hips and the thought, the tempting, terrifying thought of what lie below his scant covering. Dan grips his sketchbook a little too tightly. There’s nothing wrong with how the painting makes him feel. He goes to meetings with the GLF and they talk about the shit their parents fed them and tell each other that they’re  _ ok _ . They’re  _ good _ . Gay is ok. Gay is great.

“ ‘s a bit camp, isn’t it?”

Dan jumps, whipping around. 

The man standing a touch to close behind him raises his hands, as if to say he’s no harm.

“Calm down, sweetheart. You’re not the first one to stare at our favorite saint.”

Dan narrows his eyes and the man tilts a smile his way. Dan takes in his shaggy brown hair, his shirt and his bright, white shorts. His legs are long, nearly long as Dan’s, and he’s nearly as pale as St. Sebastian. His skin looks as soft. His mouth is pinker than Sebastian’s and there’s a small birthmark on his neck that Dan’s wants to draw, and maybe bite.

“Phil,” the man says and gives him a long once over. Apparently satisfied with what he sees, he extends a hand. “Pleasure.”

“Daniel,” Dan says, shaking his hand, “Um, Dan.”

“Nice to meet you, Dan,” Phil says. He licks his bottom lip and Dan’s eyes follow the motion. When he looks back at Phil’s eyes, Phil’s got an eyebrow quirked. 

“There’s a parade,” Phil says, taking a half step forward, just outside of the distance that would be  _ too close _ . “Next weekend. For, ah, fans of St. Sebastian.”

Dan laughs and ducks his head. The motion rocks his body forward and it's a good thing it's the middle of the day, no one here to see this but Mack, the security guard in the corner that Dan nods at when he comes in and pretends they haven’t seen each other dancing with other men in darkened bars after GLF meetings. 

“Is that what we’re calling us poofs now?” Dan asks. 

“Sweetheart,” Phil says, and his voice is low, so low, and masculine and his accent, Northern, makes his mouth wrap so pretty around his words that Dan’s on the edge, just waiting for him to say whatever he has to say next. “I’ll call you anything you want, just let me know.”

The bathroom is emptier than the exhibit, the only noise in the whole room is Dan’s mouth, wet and wide around Phil’s cock.

It’s not his smartest moment, getting cruised in an art museum, Christ, those faeries in New York had been nearly killed for much less.  But Phil had shifted his weight and his tiny shorts hadn’t hid a damn thing and Dan knew what he wanted and always got it.

Dan makes a noise through his nose and Phil thrusts carefully, his head of his cock slipping across Dan’s soft palate. Dan pulls back so he can rub his flat tongue along the firm underside up to a pointed tip that he presses to the sensitive underside. Phil huffs a breath, so Dan grabs his cock and pulls it out of his mouth entirely so he can lick across Phil’s slit and watch him shiver.

“ _Love_ ,” Phil says, so quietly he’s basically exhaling the word. He slips a careful hand into Dan’s too long curls and Dan dips his head, going back to work, sucking and working his tongue against skin until Phil is making soft, high noises and holding Dan’s head so he can fuck his hips in a tight, careful rock. Phil’s come is more watery than Dan expected and tastes of salt water. Dan swallows a few times and thinks that he might like to taste it again.

He looks up, and tries to ask if Phil would like to do him. But the image of Phil standing above while he kneels feels eerily, inexplicably wrong, off-kilter. He stands, perhaps too quickly for a bathroom stall with two grown men and Phil looks at him, sharply. Dan recognizes the look of alarm, finds it a little too familiar, so he holds his hands up, a mirror image of Phil earlier. 

“Hey,” Dan says, nearly surprising himself with the tenderness of his voice. “It's ok, my knees just got tired.”

Phil still looks a little cagey, but he doesn’t flinch away when Dan reaches out to cup his jaw, his pinky reaching to brush the fascinating birthmark. A shiver passes through Dan when he touches the mark, but he ignores is, tugging Phil forward into a kiss. 

Phil goes, easy, and his mouth is soft under Dan’s. The wet sounds of their kissing echo against the porcelain and linoleum. Someone outside of the stall clears their throat. 

“Coming up on shift change,” Mack says, “Just thought I’d let you know before I head out.” 

Dan’s certain his ears are bright red, but he still says, “Um. Thank you!”

Mack makes an affirmative noise and Dan listens til the door opens and closes. 

He and Phil leave the stall, straightening their clothes. 

“So,” Dan says, looking at Phil in the mirror above the sink. “You mentioned a parade?”

Phil’s smile is bright as anything as he nods. “A parade for the poofs. Like the one they had in New York. First of its kind, here.”

 

5.

 

“Woah!” Phil says, stepping into the  _ ridiculously fancy _ ballroom they’re doing their M&G in. It’s dim in here, Dan makes a mental note to ask someone to make sure things are bright for the pictures later. It's also posh, so painfully posh. Everything feels like it's made of velvet and maybe gold. Dan likes expensive clothes but ritzy places like this always feel like  _ too much _ , why have carpets of indigo and walls of gold when you can have a burned out hollow, black with generations of blood gifts that works just as well. 

Dan blinks, finds himself staring into the distance, the bright gold relief sculpture. That was an odd thought. 

Phil is already across the room, investigating the sculpture. 

“What d’you suppose he’s doing?” Phil asks, glancing at Dan over his shoulder. He’s gone pink and purple in the light. 

“Beheading,” Dan says, looking around, “He’s got the right idea. I should’ve lopped yours off years ago.”

Phil laughs and shoves him gently as he takes off to lope around the lavish room. Dan follows him, but keeps looking back at the sculpture, noting the curve of the kneeler’s body, the way he touched his beheader, just so. 

Dan laughed and made jokes for the instastory, but his mind kept drifting back. 

“We should take a picture,” he says finally, gesturing back to it. 

“Yeah?” Phil asks, stopping his tour around the room to meet Dan’s eyes. It's not wildly out of character, no more than the other ways they’ve pushed themselves this tour and this year. There’s a joke to play it off, and Dan can already see the jokes their audience will make, an even split between proposal and blowjob jokes.

“Sure,” Dan says, like there’s never been a reason for Phil to ask if he’s  _ sure _ . “I’m always down to work out some of my rage against you. What’s a little beheading between soul mates?”

Phil rolls his eyes, like that’ll stop his mouth from quirking up into a little smile.

They get beneath the sculpture and Phil gets to his knees, grumbling about a ploy to get him to do yoga. He settles and turns, resting a hand on his knee and waits for Dan to extend a hand, letting a single finger rest lightly on his neck. He looks down imperiously and Phil looks back and up at him, his eyes going oddly pleading. 

Dan inhales. His hand shifts, resting against the tiny birthmark on Phil’s neck.

The sensation that rocks through him is more shock than shiver and he  _ remembers _ . A doe’s red, red heart. A dying boy, whippet thin, the last worshipper, never a warrior, even amongst a warring and sailing people, Daan’s last and most beloved. He’d taken his last breath in his god’s arm and his god had blessed him. 

“Guys?” a far off voice says. “I got the picture. You can move.”

They drop the pose and Phil stands up. Dan watches him. 

They’ve lived a hundred lives, together and apart, and found each other every time. 

“Hotel,” Daan--Dan--murmurs.

Phil nods and moves forward, retrieving his phone and making their excuses about posting these to instagram and resting up before the meet&greet. Dan feels something like double vision but greater, this life layered on top of the others. He’s lived and died with Phil, Phillip, the boy, the worshipper so many times.

They cross the street in silence and make their way to Dan’s room in silence.

Phil takes the key from his pocket, opens the door and lets Dan pass, closing it behind him.

The world falls away with the click of the door, and then there is only the two of them and their many lives.

And it's--it's  _ hard _ to focus, because there are so many of them in this room, there is Dan and there is Phil and there has been so many times. 

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Dan says. He meant for it to come out vicious, powerful, except it mostly came out squeaky and distressed. “Phil. Phil, what the  _ fuck _ .”

Phil, to his credit, has always been a little better off the cuff than Dan. He manages a thinking face for at least a few seconds before he slides down the door, staring at Dan as he thumps onto his bum. 

“You feel it too, right?” Dan asks, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not...Phil, Phil, say something?”

Phil stares and stares and Dan apparently hasn’t stopped touching Phil since the fucking  _ Vikings _ were a thing, so he kneels down in front of Phil and reaches out on instinct and his fingers rest on the birthmark and Phil inhales so loudly. 

“Phil?” Dan asks. Because Phil still hasn’t said anything and god or not, in  _ this _ life, Phil has been his lighthouse for nearly half his life and he won’t know how to react to this until he knows what Phil wants.

Phil reaches up to touch the little flushed patch on Dan’s cheek and says, “You were really fit as a Viking love god.”

Dan laughs. He laughs and laughs until he starts hiccuping and it tips over into hysteria. 

“Dan,” Phil says, just loud enough to be heard over Dan’s laughing, “You’re freaking out.”

“Freaking out!” Dan says, like a perfectly normal person who isn’t freaking out. “Haha, why would I be freaking out.”

“Dan,” Phil says. 

“I mean,” Dan keeps going, “I’ve only just found out that I’m a  _ god _ . A god of  _ love _ at that, which, not to be weird about gender but from what I remember, people weren’t particularly fond of me.”

“Dan,” Phil says again, like an interrupter. Rude.

“And  _ Freya _ , my mother! I’m Norse? I don’t even  _ like _ Norway. My parents didn’t mention any Norweigan relatives. That’s just like fucking--fuck, what’s my dad’s name? I’m just coming up with  _ Wotan _ , how fucking pretentious--mmph.”

Phil’s mouth is warm and tastes a little sugary--Dan tries to remember if he’d seen Phil pilfer candy, but the thought is burned through by the heat of Phil’s mouth and then the feeling of his hands on Dan’s body. 

And this,  _ this _ is why he’d done it. He remembers now. It was a selfish, desperate choice of a dying god, but he’d also seen this life, where Phil was alive and a little more tan than milkmaid fair and he’s the one that presses Dan down to the scratchy hotel carpet and kisses him and kisses him until they’re gasping and rubbing against each other, gods and other lives forgotten. 

They come together, like they nearly always do, and Dan thinks that perhaps the love god thing isn’t  _ that _ much of a shock. 

It’s hot, until they’re done, and then they’re laying on a hard floor, a foot away from a bed and Dan’s definitely got rugburn. 

But Phil rolls off and lies next to him and stares at the ceiling when he says, “I was an orphan. Then. The first time.”

Dan made a small noise. He wasn’t expecting them to talk about the beginning. Not yet. 

“It’s coming back,” Phil says, “In pieces. I was an orphan. I stole the deer hearts. I figured...all the other gods betrayed me. You were my last chance.”

“Save the best for last?” Dan says,  just to hear Phil laugh. 

“The best,” Phil says, turning to look at him. “The very best.”  
  
  
_ I’ll wait for you _ _  
_ _ I’ll pray _

**Author's Note:**

> GLF is gay liberation front  
> Daan isn't a real Norse god but all the others are  
> Song and ending lyrics are from King Princess' 1950  
> I'm at queerofcups.tumblr.com
> 
> inspired by the photo of Dan and Phil at the Fox Theatre on the Interactive Introverts tour (the one with the Egyptian pharaoh and slave)


End file.
